


Jack Merridew's Letter

by jessng



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: After the Island, Post-Canon, Symbolism, slight PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessng/pseuds/jessng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a letter, or a note of some sort. There were a lot of crossed-out letters, and the handwriting was a pain for the eye. He leaned on the cave's wall, unaware that his white navy uniform might get dirty, and slowly read the letter, letting the words absorb into his head, for he knew they were from Jack Merridew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack Merridew's Letter

**Author's Note:**

> First LoTF fanfiction, criticism is always welcomed.

The man standing on a cliff ran a hand through his fair hair, pushing them back after the wind had messed them up. He opened his ocean-blue eyes and took a look around the island once more, before finally going down.

It had been ten years.

After the island, Jack Merridew and Roger had been taken to a reformatory camp, the rest were now scattered all over England, or even the world. Maurice's parents had sent him abroad. No one knew where, but they had never seen him in England since. They all lost contact, it was like the events at the island had never existed. The tragedy was over.

But the memories had never gone into oblivion. At least not for him. He still remembered Piggy and Simon's horrific deaths, he still remembered the painted faces, the unleashed savagery that he was almost a part of, the pig's head on the stick, the Lord of the Flies. He still remembered the mad and opaque look in Jack's eyes.

He shivered the instance those ice-cold blue eyes were recalled. He could feel it piercing through him, thirsty for his blood, hungry for his flesh, and waiting for the chance to rip his body into pieces. He trotted down the beach, feeling the humid wind against his face, and closed his eyes again. The sound of the wave hitting the shore and the palm leaves rustling in the wind came into his ears. His eyelids lifted. He looked down to his feet, for he felt something hard under it. He stared at it, then carefully picked the object up. Its color was a blend of very light pink and orange, not white, but close to that color, like the cream color.

A conch.

He poured all the water in the shell out, then slowly lifted it up to his lips, took a deep breath, and blew into it. It had been long since he last did it, so the sound coming from the shell was rather disappointing. He blew into it again, this time with air from his diaphragm. The loud, deep, booming sound he was anticipating echoed around the island. Putting the conch down next to his feet, he waited. This time, there were no sight of children coming towards him. He stared at the road leading to the jungle. For a while, he was not there. His body froze in place, while his mind was at somewhere else, somewhere on the other side of the island.

He walked the direction at which he was staring. The creepers did not bother him much, for he was too busy looking for something. He looked fixedly at the ground, and when he saw a pig's skull, he stopped. It had been ten years. The Lord of the Flies was still there, lying like a rock, but more intimidating, on the ground. Its hollow eye sockets stared back at him, and for a brief second, he saw a pair of light blue eyes in those empty holes. He turned away from the skull after a chill had ran down his spine. He walked unconsciously along the beach, to the other side of the island, to an area, still made up of those pink rocks, but with a much steeper slope, isolated from the rest of the island.

Castle Rock.

He bent down to get inside, and was greeted by the scent of the moss on the rocky walls of the place. He reached inside his pocket, took out his flashlight, and turned it on. The light hit the stalactites and the rocks, varying in size, and the back of the cave, where something, much like a drawing, was visible. He carefully walked to the spot, examining the area surrounding it in the process. The closer he was to the figure, the more he realized that it was, indeed, a drawing. It was an arrow which pointed upwards, to a stalactite about the same height as Jack Merridew ten years ago. There, secured with a thin, mouse-colored strip of cloth, was a piece of paper, probably folded in four, that had already turned yellow. He untied the cloth, and let the piece of paper fall into his opened hand. He wiped back his hair, then proceeded to unfold the letter, carefully so that he would not tear it by accident.

It was a letter, or a note of some sort. There were a lot of crossed-out letters, and the handwriting was a pain for the eye. He leaned on the cave's wall, unaware that his white navy uniform might get dirty, and slowly read the letter, letting the words absorb into his head, for he knew they were from Jack Merridew.

 _I have to write this, or my primitive desires might, and it will, rob away my ability to think with_ \- a word was crossed out, and was intentionally drawn over so that no one could read the misspelled letter - _clar something. I feel like I'm not me anymore, but someone else, a wild, savage,_ \- another word was crossed out, then another - _corrupted, blood-thirsty beast. For now, I am me, but then, I won't be me. Maybe the beastie the littluns keep talking about is just that "beast" I feel existing inside of me, and maybe that beast exists inside everyone. Well, everyone, probably except_ \- a word was crossed out - _Ralf, and Piggy, and Simon._ \- there was a hole next to the word, which was probably caused by the strength from the hand that had pressed too hard - _How did they do that anyway? Keeping themselves from this madness. I think I hate them for that._

 _I hate myself right now, but I can't do anything to change it. I want to, but I can't. I tried. But every time I see a living_ \- more words were crossed out, indicating that he must had been looking for words to express what he meant - _thing, I just can't resist the urge to kill it. I don't know what happened to me, but I hate it. I want the old me back._

 _And if anyone is reading this, please tell Ralf that I'm sorry, about lots of things that I_ \- words were crossed out again - _Forget it._

_And if Ralf is reading this, I want to tell you that I'm sorry, about the fire I mean, and for always arguing with you all the time, and for not knowing how to spell your name correctly, and for getting angry at you because I wasn't chief, and for all the things I've done that makes you mad. Truth is I'm taking some medicine and without those medicine, I'm not me. I just get to be me at some time, and the other times, it's not me who you're talking to, but another person, a scary one. So please forgive me, if that's the last thing you do._

_I apologize if I ever hurt anyone, and I will, if the scary "me" takes over me._

_I apologize for Simon's death._

_I apologize for_ \- another small hole appeared next to the word - _everything._

_I apologize._

_Jack Merridew._

Ralph looked up, and came to the realization that his cheeks were a little wet. He wiped the water off with his hand, while folding the piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. He walked outside, and looked at the calm sea.

The color of the water was light blue, but not anymore ice-cold.


End file.
